The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [130]
“There are a few more loose ends to tie up,” I said, taking a chair. “I did not want Mary to hear us discuss her mother’s death.”
“Quite correct,” said Karl approvingly. “I thank you, Frau Professor, for—”
“That is all right, Karl,” I said, wondering why he was thanking me, but not really caring very much.
Before I could continue, the door opened to admit Mr. Vandergelt. He gave the impression of having shrunk several inches since the day before. No one knew what to say, until Emerson, rising to the sublime heights of which he is sometimes capable, uttered the mot juste.
“Vandergelt, have a drink!”
“You’re a real pal, Professor,” the American said with a long sigh. “I think maybe I will.”
“Did she send you away, Mr. Vandergelt?” I inquired sympathetically.
“With language that would make a mule-skinner blush,” was the reply. “She sure enough took me in. I guess you think I’m a blamed silly old fool.”
“You were not the only one to be deceived,” I assured him.
“Aber nein,” Karl exclaimed. “I had for her always the most respectful, most—”
“That is why I refused your offer to stand guard with me last night,” said Emerson, from the table where he was pouring whiskey for the afflicted Vandergelt. “Your respect for the lady might have prevented you from acting, if only for a split second; and even that brief time could have meant the difference between life and death.”
“And naturally you turned me down,” said Vandergelt gloomily. “I tell you, Professor, I’d have been too flabbergasted to move if I had seen her.”
Emerson handed him the glass and he nodded his thanks before continuing. “You know that confounded woman expected me to marry her after all? She started cursing at me when I said I had to respectfully decline. I felt like a rat, but, gee whiz, folks, marrying a woman who has already murdered one husband just isn’t sensible. A fellow would always be wondering if his morning coffee tasted peculiar.”
“It would also be impractical to wait twenty or thirty years before enjoying the pleasures of connubial bliss,” I said. “Cheer up, Mr. Vandergelt; time will heal your wound, and I know happiness awaits you in the future.”
My well-chosen words lifted a little of the gloom from the American’s countenance. He raised his glass in a graceful salute to me.
“I was just about to discuss the death of Madame Berengeria,” I went on. “Will it pain you too much to hear…”
“One more whiskey and it wouldn’t pain me to hear that Amalgamated Railroads had fallen twenty points,” Mr. Vandergelt replied. He handed his empty glass to Emerson. “Join me in the next round, won’t you, Professor?”
“I believe I will,” Emerson replied, with an evil look at me. “We will drink, Vandergelt, to the perfidy of the female sex.”
“I will join you both,” I said gaily. “Emerson, your jests are sometimes a bit ill-timed. Mr. O’Connell is sitting on the edge of his chair, his pencil poised; explain in your own inimitable fashion the meaning of the little fairy tale we discussed last evening, and why that seemingly harmless story caused a murder.”
“Ahem,” said Emerson. “Well, if you insist, Peabody.”
“I do. In fact, I will be barmaid and wait on you both.” I took Vandergelt’s empty glass from his hand. Emerson gave me a sheepish smile. He is pathetically easy to manage, poor man. The slightest kind gesture quite softens him.
“May I impose on your good nature too, ma’am?” O’Connell asked.
“Certainly,” I replied graciously. “But none of your brash Irish gestures at the barmaid, Mr. O’Connell.”
This little sally completed the atmosphere of good humor I was endeavoring to create. As I served the gentlemen—including Karl, who thanked me with a smile—Emerson took the floor.
“Lady Berengeria’s death was in its way a masterpiece of tragic irony, for the poor stupid woman did not have the slightest intention of accusing Lady Baskerville of murder. Like all the good ladies of Luxor,